


Ask Of The Winds That Far Around

by nitpickyabouttrains



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Autumn themes, M/M, and you will be tipsy by the end, beautiful broken boys, cycles, drink every time the word leaves is written, leaves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:31:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2785070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nitpickyabouttrains/pseuds/nitpickyabouttrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The next time Steve sees Bucky</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ask Of The Winds That Far Around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angelheadedhipster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelheadedhipster/gifts).



> Happy LEAVES, Angelheadedhipster. I wrote you a present. It's just what you wanted. Broken tortured boyfriends chilly from the season.

“And more booze!” Tony shouted from deep inside the house. 

“I got it, I got it,” Steve insisted, backing up out of the house and pulling the door with him. “I’ll be back soon.”

He shut the door behind him, and immediately all the noises from the past few hours were cut off. The music and the chatter and the laughter were all reduced a muffled din in the background. 

In their place, the silence echoed through Steve’s head. The absence of  people felt like a weight lifted off his shoulders. The Stark country house was on a few acres of land, cut off and far from the nearest people or town. The seclusion was nice; it was why they were all there. They needed a break, after saving the world a few times. All of them did. 

It wasn’t actually quiet, though. There were still sounds in the wild. Steve pulled his coat tighter around his body, feeble protection against the cutting icy wind. 

Not too far off, at the edge of the forest, he could hear the soft melody of the wind rustling leaves still on the trees. Branches swayed, knocking more and more colorful leaves off onto the muddy ground. 

Steve inhaled deeply, taking in the fresh air. He loved this time of year, everything shedding layers and starting over. He liked the idea of blank slates and chances to change into something better. He also loved the way the cooling air felt hitting his throat, the shocking cold and the pleasant sting of autumn. 

He took a step forward, toward the motorcycle he was planning to take into town, and relished the sound of the crisp leaves breaking under his boot. 

Another step and the same satisfying crunch. He smiled, unable to help it. The sound reminded him of his youth, of being a  boy in Brooklyn. Of jumping into leaf piles and running after Bucky on orange and red tree-lined streets. There had been trees there then, in a way there were not now. He missed the seasons, which seemed almost stagnant in the New York he saw today. 

CRACK

This time the sound had not come from under his foot, it had come from the forest. Steve froze in his place, eyes immediately going to scan the tree line. 

Everything seemed to be in place, he could not see anything wrong. Maybe it was just an animal moving in the brush, stepping on a twig and breaking it. It had probably scared itself off. 

Still, he could not help glancing back, every couple of steps, as he moved forward, just in case. His friends were all inside, mostly drunk and not paying attention. If there was danger, he was the first line of defense. Safety was more important than the fact that they were out of vodka, though Tony might disagree. 

The third time he looked up, the edge of his eye caught a flash of silver. He took a few quick paces toward the trees, but it disappeared. 

“Hello?” he called out hesitantly, squinting into the brush. 

It was getting dark out. Shadows within shadows made it hard to tell what was real and what was not. The moon was thin and the stars were not out yet, so there was no natural light around. 

Steve had been a soldier, arguably one of the best soldiers. He knew that shouting out his position was not a good move if it was real danger. But Steve was already at a disadvantage, standing in the light from the house. If there was someone there, they already knew about him. The best he could do was even the playing field. 

The wind gusted again, howling through the trees, and Steve caught another flash of movement that did not seem natural. “Is there someone out there?” he called, hoping to draw whoever it was out into the open. 

There was a beat of silence as Steve stood as still as he could, watching to see if someone would emerge. 

“Steve,” his name came, almost a whisper, almost like it was part of the wind. 

“Bucky?” Steve was not sure if it was a question or a statement. But he watched as, sure enough, the man in question rose slowly. 

It was Bucky, but he didn’t look like he had the last time Steve had seen him. His hair was shorn short, close to his head. He was wearing dirty jeans and a worn-looking flannel button down, unclasped at the cuff but still pulled over his arm, so that only the silver of his hand showed. 

Steve blinked a few times, to make sure it was really Bucky - the last person he was expecting to see in the middle of the country. They had not exactly parted on good terms, or really at all. Last Steve knew, Bucky was still brainwashed and killing. 

He did not look like a killer now. 

“I don’t-” Steve started, shaking his head in awe. “What are you-” but none of the questions seemed right. Steve didn’t know where to begin. 

Bucky took a slow step forward, his head bent down and his shoulders hunched, so that he was not meeting Steve’s eyes. “You remember me?” Bucky said, stating it like a question, but the intention behind the words was sure, powerful. 

“Of course I remember you,” Steve said, not moving at all. He let  Bucky dictate their distance, which was currently nearly three yards. 

“I don’t,” Bucky practically whispered. 

Bucky took another slow and deliberate step forward. And Steve held his breath, worried he might startle Bucky away. “Then, what are you doing here?” Steve asked, because he could not help it, because he had to know. 

“I followed you,” Bucky said, moving a little more in Steve’s direction. “I’ve been following you. I thought, if you remembered you could...help.”

Steve took his own careful stride, closing the distance between them by nearly half, because Bucky seemed more like himself than possible. And Steve could not help it. There was a pull there, to be closer, to get near. Bucky, his Bucky, who he had mourned twice over already, was standing in front of him. 

“What can I do?” Steve asked, desperation creeping into the edge of his voice. 

“Tell me,” Bucky said, shuffling forward, so that there was no more space between them. Their feet lined up, toe to toe. But Bucky was still not looking at him. 

Steve nodded, even though Bucky could not see, and just started talking. He did not plan what he was going to say, just let the words spill out. “When we were boys, you always took care of me. I was smaller, weaker, but you never let anyone pick on me. You stood up for me. On nights like this, right before the weather turned to winter, we used to have sleepovers, huddled together against the cold.”

A gust of wind swept up, as if to prove Steve’s point, and Bucky shivered. His head shot up, and for the first time, their eyes met. His light eyes were ringed with dark circles, as if he had not been sleeping, but they were wide and full of surprise. 

“Forts,” Bucky interrupted Steve’s memory. “We built forts out of blankets.”

“We did,” Steve agreed, a huge smile taking over his whole face. If Bucky could come up with that, there was no telling what else could come back to him. 

The very edge of Bucky’s mouth turned up. It was not a smile, but it was more than Steve had been expecting. “You used to say it would protect us, that we were safe as long as we stayed inside of the walls we built. ”

“You were scared?” Bucky sounded less sure now. 

“We were kids,” Steve shrugged. He could not remember being scared of the weather, but he remembered pretending. Bucky had been the one who did not like nights like this. But he had been proud, even as a boy. And Steve had pretended, so that Bucky did not have to admit he was frightened. “We were scared of everything.”

Suddenly, with speed that Bucky had not shown since showing up, a remnant of his days --  decades, Steve thought --  as an assassin, his hands came up. They bracketed Steve’s face, one hand on each cheek. 

For a terrifying moment, Steve thought he had been wrong all along. Bucky was going to hurt him. But there was no malice in the touch, and Bucky did not exert any pressure. Steve almost wanted to close his eyes, to lean in to Bucky’s hands. But he made himself look straight ahead, into the piercing, troubled gaze of his oldest friend. 

On his cheeks, Steve could feel that Bucky was cold. His skin was clammy and chilled, to the point where Steve thought that if he closed his eyes, he might not be able to tell the metal hand from the flesh. 

“No,” Bucky said slowly. “That’s not right.”

“What?” Steve asked, not understanding. 

“Nothing ever scares you,” Bucky whispered, and Steve could not tell if Bucky was remembering them playing together as kids, or was speaking about the present. 

Steve exhaled slowly, “That’s not true.” Plenty of things scared him. The image of Bucky falling off the train played in the back of his mind, over and over. That had been the most terrifying moment of his life. 

“You did it for me,” Bucky said in a low voice. 

And then they were kissing. Steve was not sure if he had moved closer or if Bucky had moved his face for him. But it did not matter. Their lips were pressed together, closed and chaste but full of feeling. Against his skin, Bucky’s mouth felt like ice. Cold and hard. Determined, but somehow comforting. 

Bucky pulled back slowly, so that their faces were no longer touching. There was less than an inch between them, but they were no longer connected. 

“I would do it again,” Steve rasped. “Anything. Anything for you.”

Bucky nodded, which knocked his forehead against Steve’s just a little, but Steve did not mind. His eyes were trained on Bucky. 

  
Around them, the leaves swirled in the late night breeze, lifting off the ground. 


End file.
